


Under Starless Skies We Are Lost

by SkipTheSpinningRims



Category: Line of Duty
Genre: 3 +1 things, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, because i can't be bothered to write five
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-04-23 16:00:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19154311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkipTheSpinningRims/pseuds/SkipTheSpinningRims
Summary: The drive back is tense, to say the least. Steve’s not a hundred percent sure he’s actually breathing and the air around him stagnates and turns stale in his chest. None of them will look him in the eye.A.K.A. 3 times Steve fell and 1 time Kate was there to pick him up.





	1. i.

**Author's Note:**

> Please please please please please please pleeeaaaaaase can everybody write some fanfic I am thirsty for content

_  
_

  


The drive back is tense, to say the least. Steve’s not a hundred percent sure he’s actually breathing and the air around him stagnates and turns stale in his chest. None of them will look him in the eye.

  


It’s the forced normality that gets to him, the methodical weapon return, showing his ID, and getting changed because he can’t bear to be in these clothes any more, too tight around the sleeves. An excuse to focus on something other than the life he’s just taken.

  


He presses his head against his locker. He breathes.

  


He decides to leave, the paperwork can wait until tomorrow. It’ll play on his mind in the early hours of the morning, he knows, but the thought of sitting down at a desk, averting his gaze because he’s not sure he can look the rest of his unit in the eyes right now, horrifies him just a little bit.

  


He takes a detour to the bathroom on his way out. To take a piss-- because that’s another thing distracting him. And he can’t allow that to happen because he deserves to dwell on this all night. He’s taken an innocent man’s life, the last thing he deserves is extra hours of sleep.

  


When he’s done he stands in front of the mirror, his hands clutching at the side of the sink.

  


He stares at the corner of a tile, it’s grimy, coated in months of filth. It’s all expenses spared in their department, cutting corners when they can because they wouldn’t dare when it comes to the actual cases.

  


The door swings open, and Steve feels a slight twinge of annoyance. He shouldn’t, everyone in the building has a right to be in the bathroom, but he just wants to be alone right now.

  


Every sound goes straight through him, almost making him shudder. The scrape of the door on the floor, the creak of a rusty tap turning, the crash of his head against the sink.

  


He drops to his knees—to the floor, gasping. He expected the cold shoulder, some foul words, maybe. But not this.

  


The man’s hand is still threaded through his hair, pulling his head back, away from the shattered remains of the sink.

  


The hand loosens, and then he applies pressure again, pushing Steve’s head closer to it, sharp enough to cut him. He wakes up then, struggling enough to take the man by surprise. Carter, he thinks his name is.

  


He’s strong, built like a house, something Steve definitely isn’t. And Steve knows he’s fighting a losing battle here. He manages to twist his head slightly, enough to ensure that the ceramic tears a rip in his cheek rather than impaling him through the eye.

  


He manages to wriggle his way out of Carter’s grip, but the door swings open again, his mates enter, and Steve knows he’s royally _fucked._

  


He’s back on the floor in seconds, the floor is cold and smells faintly of piss, originally it was grey and Steve doesn’t even want to imagine what caused the stains on it. And the quite possibly used tissue near his head is much too close for comfort.

  


A foot collides with his head, heavy boots are worn. Probably a deliberate choice. He’s backed into a corner, literally.

  


There’s another impact, a sharp spike of pain and then fading into the background with the rest of the pain echoing around his body. There’s laughter, they’re enjoying it.

  


And then there’s shouting, someone- a supervisor he thinks- is yelling, telling them to leave. And they do, a few land one last blow before they’re dragged away. Steve looks up at the officer, pleading, almost. There’s no pity. He scoffs and leaves, unimpressed.

  


Steve rolls onto his front, placing his hands on the floor and pushing himself upwards. It’s not pleasant, his fingers are bruised, and two of them are slightly crooked, not quite straightening out.

  


Steve knows it’s not just today’s failed operation that’s pissed everybody off. It’s months of tension that’s been building through their annoyance at being ordered around by a cocky DS who’s at least five years their junior.

  


He gets it, kind of, he can see _why_ they’re angry about being commanded by Steve, who still retches when there’s a dead body in the vicinity, who’s trained with firearms, knows the book back to front but doesn’t have the balls to fire at a living, breathing, person.

  


He’s finally standing, not particularly straight but it’s definitely something-- his face is no longer two inches from a puddle of piss so that’s always something to be glad about. The sink used in the attack is absolutely _demolished._ No one’s going to be washing their hands in that any time soon, and Steve dreads to think what’s going on inside his skull if a solid sink looks like that.

  


He’s not thinking, his hands press into shards of glass. The mirror’s broken. He’s not sure when that happened.

  


Steve pants over the remnants of the bathroom, some not quite safe to drink water spills out onto the tiles. He has to leave. IN the back of his mind he twigs that he’s probably going to be the one who has to foot the bill for all this.

  


It almost makes him laugh, but the sound catches somewhere in his chest, his ribs curving inwards and then reverting, a throbbing settling beneath his sternum. His good hand clutches at the shirt above it, clenching it in his fist as if that will do something to relieve the pain radiating from the area. A man can hope.

  


He exits the room, he has to at some point and there’s no valid reason to extend his stay there any longer. He practically shuffles down the corridors and the lady at the front desk doesn’t even bat an eye. They’ve had a few conversations, made a few cups of tea for each other, but Steve knows she’s drowning in debt-- anything for a few quid.

  


He shouldn’t be driving, he knows that. If he gets pulled over he’ll have a lot of explaining to do, and he’s not sure how to get blood out of upholstery.

  


It’s dark now, and through his blurry eyes he can just about make out the obnoxious red, amber, and green of the traffic lights. He knows his face is covered with sweat, and probably tears too. The blood on his face has started to dry, turning brown and congealing, spread across his cheeks. It feels like his skin is getting tighter.

  


He needs to pull over, but he doesn’t.

  


He stumbles over his doorstep, but somehow still locks the door behind him. It’s muscle memory, too many nights of insecurity.

  


The handle of the shower turns with a slight creak, the gradual accumulation of general filth after messy operations taking it’s toll.

  


He doesn’t bother to take his clothes off, his hands are shaking too much and he’ll only have to get up and sort them out later, ignoring the smell of sweat as he loads the washing machine.

  


He stands under the spray for too long, enough to turn his skin red and shrivel his fingertips. He stands until the water runs cold and then he stands there for a bit longer.

  


He wrenches the handle back and turns the shower off, it’s still dripping quite heavily but that was the last of Steve’s strength gone. He peels off his clothes, that’s one suit ruined.

  


He crawls into bed, trembling slightly. There’s no sheets on it, and the seams make him shudder a little bit. His head and hand aches, so does his chest.

  


The little sleep he does get is fitful, and he doesn’t really remember falling asleep or waking up, just drifting in and out of empty thoughts, the only difference being the colour of the sky.

  


His alarm goes off at half past seven, just like it does every other day.

  


The bed is uncomfortably warm, and slightly damp-- an unpleasant mixture of sweat and the water from his shower that he never dried off. His suit is in a pile on the floor, it’s still sopping wet, damp. The room smells musty, stale.

  


He grabs some fresh clothes and heads downstairs to change, not wanting to stay in the bedroom any longer than he has to. He’s ashamed of it, almost. Upset that he let himself spiral so far in just a few hours.

  


He dresses swiftly and considers breakfast, eventually deciding against it. He’s not sure whether he’d be able to keep it down, but that might be a side effect of the trauma from last nights impromptu beating rather than an emotional thing.

  


His hands have almost stopped shaking by the time he’s finished tying his tie, which is nice. Steve opts to go to the bathroom before he leaves for work. He’s going to go in like everything’s normal, but he’s not stupid enough to go to the bathroom alone-- God knows what could happen. He pisses some blood. Not so nice.

  


He inhales deeply and sighs, he’s got to survive work, and then he’ll go to the doctors, or maybe A&E and get himself checked out, because he’d bet his next pay cheque that at least two of his fingers are broken. He splints them together as well as he can with his rather lacking first aid kit, and decides that he needs to go now or he never will.

  


Work passes in a blur of angry officers, and furious colleagues. One of them even spits on his shoe. Another day he would have challenged them, asked them what the hell gave them the sheer _audacity_ to do that. But then again, this isn’t exactly a regular day.

  


It seems to switch between an intense fast forward and an unnerving rewinding, until it’s suddenly time to clock out and he’s now in a bar with Superintendent Hastings from AC-12, of all people.

  


Hastings wants him. Hastings wants Steve in his anti-corruption unit.

  


It’s unexpected, and shaking his hand hurts like a bitch, but Steve thinks it’s nice to be wanted for once.


	2. ii.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So uhhh,,,, this took like a month bc this bitch lazy

Steve can appreciate the finer things in life, he appreciates a good wine, or a chilled cider in a beer garden on a warm day, among other things. Steve categorically does _not_ appreciate this very small, very angry child trying to dismember his hand. As if it being trapped inside a vice isn’t enough.

 

This kid clearly isn’t paying attention in his design-technology lessons, because Steve is sure that not sticking your hand in the vice is the first rule.

 

He’s also not entirely overjoyed by the rather sweaty balaclava men trying to hold him down. It’s far too warm to be wearing about six leather jackets, but he’s not sure that they want his fashion advice, and he doesn’t really want to find out how they’d react to it, so he stays quiet.

 

Headbutting the kid wasn’t ideal, and it’s left him with a pounding headache, but it’s dulled by the pain in his hand.

 

He can see bruises beginning to spread across it, coming from the centre, where the vice pins his hand, and now branching out across his palm. It’s more original than handcuffs, he’ll give them that. It’s frustrating too, at an angle just severe enough to uncomfortably extend the tendons in his wrist.

 

The freezer in the corner unnerves him. He knows what people use freezers like that for most of the time, and he suspects that if there isn’t already a body in there, it’ll be his.

 

And then there’s sirens, and he realises that everything might just be alright.

 

His kidnappers run, and he hears the kid cry out in pain from outside. He winces, but there’s a moment of spite that he tries to quickly suppress. He’s police officer, he can’t be celebrating a kid of dubious innocence getting beaten up.

 

He’s not sure where the chair he was sat on has gone.

 

He pries his hand from the vice and it’s a mess, to say the least, where the centre of the vice was it’s a dark purple, in that awkward kind of numb, kind of painful stage before it’s all really set in. There’s some nails missing, and blood congeals in the cuticles of others. The two fingers that the kid almost got to are worse. He doesn’t want to look at them. Below his wrist is just a mess of purple swelling and burgundy blood soaking into his sleeve.

 

Steve sits on the floor, cradling his hand to his chest. He needs to calm himself down, he realises, and tries to focus on breathing rhythmically. In and out, in and out.

 

Tony Gates is there. It must have been his sirens, Steve thinks, wishing he’d twigged that earlier and ran while he still had the chance. _Obviously_ it would have been Gates, his kidnappers knew what they were doing, this clearly wasn’t their first rodeo. There’s no way anyone else could have found him so soon.

 

It hurts his pride, but Steve is one of the few people he knows who actually possesses a functional self-preservation instinct and damn right, he’s going to use it.

 

He begs.

 

And Gates doesn’t have it in him. He lets Steve live. If Gates doesn’t have the balls to shoot someone who’s been nothing but a thorn in his side since the day they met, how could he have had the nerve to shoot Jackie Laverty?

 

Steve takes a minute to lie back, to spread out on the floor and do nothing, even if it’s only for a few seconds.

 

It’s not over, there’s still a case to solve and criminals to catch, but there’s not an immediate threat to Steve’s life, and that _is_ something he can appreciate.

 

There’s peace, something Steve has always found in the weirdest places, until the kid outside starts yelling again. There’s nothing he wants to do less than get up and track down the source of the noise, but he knows he has to.

 

The kid is practically throwing a temper tantrum, which is understandable as he’s cuffed to a pipe and Steve would also guess that he’s injured as all his weight’s on one leg.

 

He gets down to the kids level. Steve hasn’t done very much training with kids, so he’s a bit out of his comfort zone, but needs must.

 

“Hey,” he starts, “What’s your name?”

 

The kid still lashes out, and his free hand-- you know, the one that’s not tethered to the drainpipe-- catches Steve’s injured hand. He almost screams, and the pain goes up a notch and stays there.

 

He gives up on the soft approach, and stands back up. Steve’s not tall, but he towers over the kid. He lifts a foot and nudges the kid’s injured leg. Not enough to hurt him or do any further damage, but enough to get his attention.

 

“I said, what’s your name?”

 

The kid glares up at him, “Ryan.”

 

Steve sighs, “Right, Ryan, I know you’ve got a phone. Where.”

 

Ryan doesn’t say anything, he looks at the ground, avoiding Steve’s eyes as much as he can.

 

“Gates really did a number on you.” in Steve’s opinion, their injuries don’t even compare, but he gets the feeling that Ryan won’t agree with that sentiment, “If you help me out, I can help you.”

 

He gives Ryan a few seconds to think it over, and sure enough, a few seconds later he’s removed a phone from his pocket and is sliding it across the ground in Steve’s direction.

 

Steve picks the phone up and dials as well as he can with just his left hand. It picks up after a few rings. Ryan can hear the voice on the other end from a few feet away.

 

“Steve? Son, where’ve you been all morning? We’ve been lookin’ all over for you!”

 

Steve relays most of what happened to Hastings, attempting to sound as business-like and authoritative as possible. When he’s done he sinks to the curb, just out of reach in case Ryan tries anything funny.

 

“When they ask, you say that I cuffed you.”

 

“What? Why?” he’s confused, and maybe Steve needs to be a responsible adult and not rope small children into his elaborate schemes. But that’s a problem for future-Steve.

 

Steve doesn’t reply, because he can’t think of a better way to explain it to a ten-year-old other than ‘police stuff’, and he has a feeling that that won’t go down too well.

 

Several police officers arrive with an ambulance a few minutes later, and the youngest paramedic takes one look at his hand blanches, Steve can’t imagine that that’s a good sign.

 

Hastings arrives soon after, as does Kate. He realises that she probably shouldn’t be there, she risks blowing her cover. But he also realises she’s Kate-- resident bad ass-- and has probably thought all of that through already.

 

She says she’ll follow them to the hospital in her car, and it turns out her cover has already been blown. She’s got a nasty bruise to prove it too.

 

He’s whisked away to surgery almost immediately, and comes around with both Kate and Ted peering at him. He suppresses the mild embarrassment over having the shit beaten out of him and Kate’s reassurance that he’s _not_ going to lose his fingers is some welcome relief.

 

Hastings leaves soon after, he cares about Steve even though he’s only worked with him for a few short weeks, but he can’t leave the rest of AC-12 unsupervised. Kate stays.

 

“Well, look on the bright side mate, you’ll get a few weeks off work.”

 

Steve doesn’t reply, because that’s what he’s been dreading-- alone, at home, with nothing to occupy his mind-- it’s his worst nightmare.

 

“Yeah,” he says, forcing a laugh.

 

* * *

 

 

He pushes himself back into work, far earlier than he probably should. Steve has always tried to minimise his time alone at home. Working as late as possible before they banned overtime, spending the rest of the night at the pub, or at a bar. Inviting a pretty woman home with him and heading out early to work in the morning.

 

He ignores Kate’s worried looks, Hastings is clearly concerned even though he has a weird way of showing it. And it bites him in the ass later, when it’s harder to type because one hand moves so much faster than the other, when it’s late in the evening and he’s struggling to hold a pen.

 

But he’ll pick it up and carry on, say he’s fine when Kate asks, because he’s got a job to do.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve's hand being a bit messed is some relatable content bc like 4 years ago a girl in ice skates trod on my finger and uhhhhhh,,,, not good
> 
> Also comment like prompts/requests for Line Of Duty because i am starved for content but i need inspo for when i get bored of this


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